


Maybe In Time

by Quenen



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quenen/pseuds/Quenen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drunken man can only hope to charm a God. A dead drunken man can hope to charm no one. Grantaire is determined not to die, and he will not let Enjolras die either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe In Time

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first fic in quite a long time, so I might be a little rusty. That said, I hope you enjoy it!

  
_All you need is love, love or, failing that, alcohol._  
-Wendy Cope

Enjolras eyes are ablaze with the fire of the revolution. Grantaire imagines _it looks like a...like a...a phoenix._ He notes that down in his little notebook that he keeps around for ‘artistic inspiration’, trapped in a pocket of his waistcoat. It just so happens most of his ‘artistic inspiration’ comes from observations of Enjolras. _How he moves so smoothly, as if he is made of the wine Grantaire drinks, how he sighs like pebbles falling off a mountain top, or, or like..._

Grantaire thinks.

_Like a bloody drunk idiot is bothering him all the time while he’s talking._ He’s lost the ‘artistic touch’, so Grantaire sits up and tries to actually listen to the voice above the rest of the chatter filling the café. 

“Why do we sit by and let them do this to us? How dare they treat the people so! How dare they fill our hearts with such hatred! But my friends, there is an advantage. By filling our hearts with hate, they fill our spirits with determination!” Enjolras is stood like a street preacher, earning the ears of Combeferre and Marius. Grantaire feels a weak smile on his face – the same old, it seems like.  
Enjolras never bloody shuts up about his revolution. They will rise the barricade, the old age will past, a new dawn will come...he’s heard it so many times it is like a morning prayer. Grantaire wishes he could never hear it again. He knows there isn’t a chance, his sceptical nature playing his thoughts into sense. The people will not rise, and Enjolras, him, all of them...they will die.

It’s obvious they shall die. Revolutionaries did not often live very long, Grantaire thinks. Having read many histories of revolutions (in his efforts to be on the same level as Enjolras) he knows that.   
It seems almost impossible, that Enjolras could die. He is altogether too holy for that, too godlike in his every motion and word. Grantaire, now Grantaire knows that he himself could die. In fact, maybe he should.  
An ugly beetle staring up at the bird about to eat him, marvelling at its beauty – it’s almost funny, when he thinks about it.

He catches Enjolras' eye for a moment, and winks – Enjolras rolls his eyes in response and looks away, continuing his speech. Grantaire hopes LeMarque never dies. Then, they can stay in this dusty old café forever, talking of death but not actually experiencing it.   
As he has this thought, Gavroche bursts through the door, and he just knows what the news is, because that’s how his life goes. God must have a laugh a minute, choosing his fate.

“General LeMarque is dead!” Grantaire closes his eyes tightly for just a moment, not enough for anyone to see – not that they do, all eyes are now on Enjolras, who looks so beautiful in that moment Grantaire almost closes his eyes again because he can’t take it.   
“His death – the moment of fate!” A cheer moves around the room, and Grantaire half-heartedly joins in. If they are to die, he might as well be happy during. Enjolras continues to talk, getting louder and louder, stood on a chair and grinning wildly. 

Grantaire can only watch for so long. He gets up, ignoring a questioning glance from Marius, and takes himself and his bottle outside, to the street. It’s quiet, and raining softly into puddles. He kicks the water. It ripples, and he looks down.

His reflection is ugly. He didn’t expect any different – he knows he is ugly, always has done, but after seeing Enjolras’ beauty only moments ago, it burns him especially. He decides to go home; to the small flat he keeps. He considers taking a ‘woman of the night’ with him, but he rejects the idea. The last time he had tried to entertain himself like that, he’d ended up with a smacked face and only partially undone trousers. 

Apparently women didn’t appreciate you calling men’s names during kissing them. 

Grantaire collapses into his door, sitting on the bed with his head down, his shoulders up and his bottle held in his hands. He turns it slowly, watching the liquid inside spill down, and down, and down again. Sometimes it seems to pause slightly in it's descent, as if reconsidering, but it always falls.

Soon, Enjolras will be dead. And at that point, so will Grantaire be. It does not matter if his body is gone or not. His soul will have lost its anchor. This knowledge pains him so much he drinks the last of the alcohol and goes outside to buy two more bottles before he sleeps that night.

_He dreams of Enjolras, but different – he isn’t talking about freedom or liberty or the people. He’s talking about Grantaire. He lists all of Grantaire’s ugly features, calling them things like ‘beautiful’ and ‘exquisite’. Grantaire mumbles into Enjolras skin that no; he is not the beautiful one.  
Enjolras quietens him with a kiss. The kiss deepens, and then suddenly Grantaire is choking-choking, falling and everything is dark._


End file.
